FROM WEIR TO MILL. 73 



John is as conservative as his so-called betters 

 in these matters. 



It is three o'clock in the morning in the middle 

 of summer, and we are in one of the lush meadows 

 that border each side of the river. The rooks in 

 the lime avenue have not wakened up yet properly. 

 Only a few gabbles, croaks, and shriller notes from 

 the young branchers, let you know that it will not 

 be long before they are all wide awake for the day. 



It is a warm dewy morning; the vegetation is 

 drenched with moisture. The sun will be well up 

 before the yellow irises and the marsh -marigolds 

 open out. The fish take up most of our thoughts, 

 however. We know of some very large chub and 

 dace that have their hovers in and among the sub- 

 merged roofs of some large pollard willows that 

 lean out from the bank over the water. 



Some folks say that fish are silly, and devoid 

 of the instinct given to other creatures; but such 

 have never fished, or they would have known 

 better. These large chub and dace know some- 

 thing too much for me at any rate; for try how 

 or where I would, not one of the large ones have 

 I captured. The great white lips of the chub 



